


overcome

by brightclam



Series: fuck the discovery writers AU [3]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: FIx It, Multi, ash isn't voq, hugh doesn't die, lorca isn't evil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:56:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightclam/pseuds/brightclam
Summary: Discovery is dropped into the intricate web of deception and betrayal that is the mirror universe, and unbeknownst to them the Empress is aware of their presence. They're just trying to deal with Lorca's manipulations and Stamet's shattered mind.In the normal universe, Captain Tilly prepares to destroy what she thinks is an unusually large rebel nest, unaware that there are already rebels hiding inside discovery. They're waiting for the right time to strike, and they have inside help.[Don't read if you want ash to be voq or lorca to be evil. That will never be canon for me, so you won't find it here.]





	1. mirrorverse introductions

**Author's Note:**

> This is where the main plot of my fix it begins! I will be ignoring pretty much everything part two of season one has done. The previous works in the series aren't necessary to read, but they will fill you in on what canon I am following in this story. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> tw for this chapter: blood, offscreen deaths of unimportant characters.

\------

No one remembers the name of the old countries. In the third world war, one of them had taken control and unified all the countries into the empire. No one needs to remember their names anymore; only the empire matters now.

 

When the first ship of the Vulcan invasion force landed in front of a group of Terran soldiers, Lt. Zefram Cochrane had taken his chance. He’d mowed the aliens down and taken their ship for the empire. The Vulcans had underestimated human ingenuity and it had doomed them.

 

With access to Vulcan technology, humanity quickly learned the secrets of warp flight. Soon enough, the Terran empire was spacebound. The element of surprise allowed them to momentarily overpower the other warp flight capable alien species, but rebellion grew quickly. The empire’s hardwon control began to slip from its fingers. 

 

Then Empress Sato took the empire by storm, bringing with her a starfleet ship from the future. The empire quickly subdued it’s enemies with the new technology. The rebellion was crushed, and the empire soon had future technology in every one of their ships.

 

The Terran empire has really only survived by stealing other’s technology. They have no scientists to speak of, through the weapon makers are thriving.

 

As a scientist, Stamets knows this fact too well. He loves his mushrooms, but they have no weapons potential other than poisons. At least, he had thought they didn’t, until he’d been lucky enough to capture a Tardigrade. The empire had wanted the Tardigrade for its murderous claws and fangs, but he saw that it had so much more potential. They were going to take it away from him, and he couldn’t stop them. But he could inject himself with its DNA before they took it.

 

Stamets crouches in the corner of what once his lab, and has now become his prison. His power sparks in the darkness, sending greenish light flickering across the torn up walls and smashed equipment on the counters. He’d destroyed it all, accidently shredding himself on the metal shards. Fortunately, the metal was just as good at hurting the people they sent in as it was at hurting him.

 

The last one they sent had a phaser rifle. They’re trying to kill him. If he wasn’t an insignificant scientist in a tiny weapons lab no one cared about, he’d have been put down already.

 

They’ll get him eventually, even if he can fry them alive with the power running through his veins. Threats to the empire are always destroyed. If only he had something to bargain with, something that would keep him alive…

 

He blurs again, and it lasts terribly long this time. He hates being more than one person. The memories of his weak other-self rattle around his head for days afterwards. That terribly soft man with his beautiful, living doctor. 

 

His other-self is hurting-aching-screaming: something is wrong. Stamets picks through through the trails of the mycelial network, following the threads that connect the other-self to his ship. What a wonderful, powerful ship. Gleaming, spore powered weapon ship. 

 

Ah! Poor other-self; his master had pulled on his reins too hard and now his weak brain can’t handle it. Stamets settles in to see how long it takes to kill the other-self, but then a thought strikes him: a weapon ship lost in the threads of the network is easy prey for him.

 

The empress would love the weapon-ship discovery, and she would need an engine. Stamets could power the ship after his other-self died. Stamets could ensure his survival so easily with this weapon ship.

 

Stamets laughs and reaches out to take the burden from his other-self, filling the ship with his own power and gently, gently, so gently, setting it down in his own universe.

 

The other-crew may be weak, but they will manage to hide for some time. They’ll cower in the Klingon wreckage, trying to figure out where they are. They’ll keep until Stamets leads the empress to them and takes that marvelous weapon for the empire.

 

Now, to get out of this damned room!

 

\------

 

Captain Tilly blinks the blood out of her eyes, reaching up to probe the wound on her forehead. She’s laying on the floor of the bridge, a few feet away from her chair. Her guard leans over her and she snarls at them to back off. They jump back, knowing that her moment of weakness is gone, and she’s quickly on her feet. She scans the bridge, scoffing at the sight of her crew sprawled across the floor. 

 

Most of them are rising from where the impact had thrown them, but a few just lie bleeding. She gestures at the security guards by the door to dispose of them. What the hell was that impact anyways? She looks out the viewscreen, hoping to see an enemy ship. She’s in the mood for a fight.

 

Then again, when isn’t she?

 

To her disappointment, there’s no enemies in sight, only a slowly rotating Terran star base. She settles back into her chair with an irritated huff and waves a hand at Bryce, muttering:

 

“Open a channel to that starbase.”

 

He nods, still shaky from the fall, and his station chirps it’s readiness. The viewscreen greys out, waiting to receive the transmission. She smirks at it, ready to gut the person responsible for shaking them up, whoever they may be. She snarls out her usual greeting, which is more of a command:

 

“Starbase, this is Captain Tilly of the I. S. S. Discovery. Respond.”

 

There is no response. She frowns at the grey screen, tapping her short nails on the handle of her chair. Who on that starbase dares to ignore her, commander of the flagship of the empire? 

 

Finally, the channel spring to life and a stern looking man stares at her, speaking calmly:

 

“Discovery, we do not recognize your captain. Please explain yourself, or prepare to be restrained.”

 

She snickers at him, the deadly undertone making the backs or her bridge crew straighten further. She’s mastered the cold noise, and carefully associated it with incoming punishment. Her crew knows the noise well, and though this man isn’t as well trained, he should still respond to the threatening undercurrent.

 

“Don’t recognize me? Your imaging system must be malfunctioning.” 

 

The man glares at her as if she’s made an unfunny joke. She bares her teeth at the disrespect, making the bridge crew hunker down further. She grinds her teeth harder as he speaks again, unimpressed:

 

“We know who you are, Cadet Tilly. Where is Captain Lorca?”

 

She laughs, so shocked it turns into glee.

 

“Cadet? Oh, you are funny.”

 

The laughter disappeared as quickly as it appeared, turning into cold fury. Her hands turn into claws on the arm rest, screeching across the metal, and she leans towards the viewscreen like a predator ready to strike.

 

“I want to speak to the real commander of this starbase. Tell them I expect your foolish head on a platter.”

 

The man tries, and fails, to look intimidating.

 

“Discovery, power down your warp engines and prepare to dock. The Nighthawk will escort you in. She will fire on you if you resist.”

 

Captain Tilly feels a bloodthirsty grin steal across her face. It appears she’ll get that fight after all.

 

“I declare this starbase a threat to the Terran empire. In the name of the empress, I will destroy you, and I’ll enjoy it too.”

 

With an imperious wave of her hand, the comm officer cuts off the transmission. Owosekun turns to her and announces the approach of a Terran starship, presumably the Nighthawk. Tilly sits back, pillows her head on a hand, and gets ready for the show.

 

“Owosekun, fire all weapons. Detmer, attack pattern delta two.”

 

Discovery’s weapons lance out, slamming into the Nighthawk’s shields. The traitorous ship shudders, but her shields hold for now. Detmer throws Discovery into a dizzying spiral and sends her charging straight down the Nighthawk’s throat. The two ships are suddenly playing a deadly game of chicken, and Nighthawk pulls away first. 

 

Rhys shouts out the location of their weakest shield, located on the underside of their left nacelle, and Owosekun takes the opportunity to pour all of Discovery’s firepower into that spot. The shield buckles and a moment later the Nighthawk is a cloud of fiery dust. Tilly takes a moment to gloat, but quickly turns her attention to the starbase.

 

“Bryce, jam them. Owosekun, fire.”

 

After a few moments of the barrage, a shield buckles and the starbase goes the way of the Nighthawk. A victorious silence settles over the bridge and Captain Tilly hums happily. Her mood has improved greatly now that’s she not only wiped out a nest of traitors, but also killed the man who’d dared disrespect her.

 

Bryce speaks, his voice shaking slightly, and she knows something is wrong instantly.

 

“Captain? They managed to get a distress call through before I could jam them.”

 

She turns to face him, and he looks at her with a mixture of fear and resignation. She should punish him for his failure, but she’s more interested in seeing who the starbase called out to than she is in hurting him.

 

“Very well, the more traitors to destroy the better.”

 

\-----

 

Deep in the guts of the I. S. S. discovery, a group of rebels hides inside a cargo crate. Their carefully constructed plan has quickly spun out of control, and they listen to the weapons fire with a mixture of terror and confusion. 

 

Saru’s blinks his wide eyes, ears searching for any sign of what’s happening outside. His threat ganglia are fully extended, twitching nervously. 

 

“Do you think they found one of our cells?”

 

Phillipa Georgiou, leader of the rebellion, runs a hand over his ganglia, gently smoothing them down. Her other hand is wrapped tightly around the strap of her phaser rifle.

 

“Whatever happens, we’ll keep fighting. We will destroy Discovery and strike a crippling blow to the Terran empire!”

 

\------


	2. reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a flash of inspiration last night, so new chapter! I'll try to figure out a routine posting schedule soon.
> 
> tw: blood, offscreen dead people
> 
> for anyone worried about it, I hate how most people write the mirrorverse so r*pey. Any consorts I mention are in the style of the tos mirrorverse episode: they are voluntarily in that position, usually as a way to gain power. There will be no sexual violence in this story.

\------

 

The empress climbs the short flight of stairs to reach her throne, settling down with her usual deadly elegance. Her gold robes spill down the stairs, so long they almost reach the floor. Her hair is pinned back with an intricate netting of small gold chains, which serve as her crown. Her consort settles down on his designated platform next to the throne and she buries her fingers in his dark hair. 

 

She relaxes into the plush throne, running her fingers over the handle of the sword stored on the rack beside it, and nods at the guard to open the door to her throne room. Her tactical officer strides in, bowing deeply, and begins to give her a report on the empire’s status.

 

He’s just informed her that the Andorian resistance base on Daxar three has been destroyed when another officer bursts in, bowing and apologizing for the interruption. She glares at them, making them cower deeper, but waves her hand for them to speak.

 

“My lady, we’re receiving a transmission from the lab on Senr moon. They have the proper clearance code, but they aren’t making much sense. They claim to have important information for you.”

 

This is an interesting diversion from the usual reports of Terran soldiers killing and rebels dying. She grins excitedly and orders them to open the channel.  
A strange looking man appears in the hologram. He’s incredibly pale, making the bloody wounds on his arms and chest look even redder. His eyes are glazed, and they dart around the room constantly, never stopping in any one spot. He’s wearing the remnants of an imperial uniform, and behind him she can see bodies, also wearing Terran uniforms.

 

“This the empress. Speak your piece.”

 

The man smirks at her but doesn’t speak, only starts tapping one foot incessantly. She’s quickly becoming annoyed with him, no matter how curious she is. She’s about to cut the transmission off when he does something very strange.

 

His glazed eyes suddenly glow a sickly green, and energy crackles along his body, curling around his arms and collecting in his palms. It’s sudden enough that the tactical officer and the comm officer jump back. She leans forwards, intrigued by this strange power that this unknown man wields.

 

He releases the energy and it sizzles across the walls visible in the hologram, leaving giant scorch marks and dripping trails of melted metal. Once the last sparks have died out, he finally speaks:

 

“Do I have your attention, my lady?”

 

She smirks back at him, mind already spinning with plans to exploit this new power.

 

“You certainly do, Mr. Stamets.” 

 

\-----

 

Lorca looks out at the unfamiliar debris field and knows, deep in his bones, that they aren’t where they’re supposed to be. They aren’t even where he thought they were going. 

 

He thought he’d gotten used to the guilt, had learned to survive even with it sitting on his chest and making it hard to breathe. But now it’s growing more and more vicious as he looks out at the mess that probably is his fault.

 

He tears his eyes from the floating destruction on the viewscreen and turns to Saru, snapping louder than he had meant to:

 

“Where the hell are we, number one?”

 

Saru stutters, his threat ganglia extended and his hands shaky:

 

“I don’t know, sir.”

 

Michael cuts in, voice steely and calm:

 

“The wreckage is Klingon, sir, but the readings are off...they don’t match the vibrational signature of our universe.”

 

Saru interrupts, voice vibrating with fear:

 

“That isn’t possible!”

 

Saru clicks worriedly, eyes darting between Michael and Lorca as he looks for answers. Lorca can feel the tension in the bridge leap up a notch, Owosekun and Detmer sharing a worried look over their consoles. Lorca turns back to the viewscreen, dread filling him as he thinks of the map of universes in his ready room.

 

“Unless, this isn’t our universe.”

 

\-------

 

Michael strides across the bridge, perfectly in sync with Saru. Despite their initial problems, they have learned how to once again work as a team. Especially when their captain---and oh, doesn’t calling Lorca that feel like walking across Phillipa’s grave---seems to be upset. Lorca’s voice had shook when he called them to the ready room. He had sounded close to breaking down; a terrifying possibility considering she’s never heard him be anything but perfectly controlled.

 

She looks at Saru before they reach the range of the door’s sensor, and he looks back at her. They can see the same fear they’re feeling reflected in the other’s eyes, and they draw strength for knowing they’ll be facing the fear down together. He clicks and dips his head at her, respectfully gesturing for her to enter first. His threat ganglia are still half extended---they haven’t retracted since they entered this new universe---and that only makes her more apprehensive.

 

When she enters the room, the lights are almost all the way off. Lorca slumps in his chair, curled in on himself like he’s wounded. It sends a spike of concern through her and Saru looks equally worried when he sees the captain’s strange body language. Once the door has swished shut, hiding them from the bridge’s eyes and ears, Lorca straightens up enough to look them in the eyes. He doesn’t wait to speak, just charges in:

 

“Commander Saru, as of this moment, you are to relieve me of duty and take command of Discovery.”

 

Michael, despite years of practice controlling her emotions, can’t stop her eyebrows from jumping in surprise at that. Saru reacts much more strongly; his entire body flinches away from the words as if they’re a weapon and his threat ganglia extend fully. He gasps:

 

“Captain, you must be joking!”

 

Lorca drops his eyes, something like shame flitting across his face. Michael feels her stomach drop; she knows this is real. Something terrible is unfolding before their eyes, and it’s not a joke. Lorca’s facade is finally crumbling, and she isn’t sure she wants to see what is underneath it. When she regains her voice, she manages to sound calm despite the whirlwind of emotions inside of her:

 

“There must be a valid reason for a Captain to be removed from duty, sir.”

 

Lorca smiles at her, something achingly affectionate that makes her stomach churn harder. She feels like she’s watching her captain die all over again, unable to help.

 

“Indeed. I am not mentally fit for duty, Burnham.”

 

Saru’s disbelief is turning to desperation now, and he stumbles a couple steps forwards, reaching out to his captain.

 

“But you are, sir! You’ve been psychologically cleared, your medical record says so!” 

 

Lorca laughs, a bitter, cruel noise that cuts like knives.

 

“My records says so because I have a friend who’s a starfleet psychologist and is willing to lie for me. I haven’t been fit since I killed my crew. I’ve just lying and somehow, I’ve getting away with it.”

 

Saru looks close to tears and he shakes his head, refusing to believe what he’s hearing. Michael just watches as Lorca’s facade falls away with the lies. He buries his head in his hands, rocking slightly in the plush chair.

 

“I’ve been having severe symptoms all along. Hypervigilance, homicidal thoughts, suicidal thoughts. I thought I could handle it. And when I couldn't it, no one even noticed. No one but Kat. Oh, Kat.”

 

He stands suddenly, hand flying to the phaser that’s haphazardly tucked into the waistband of his uniform. Michael tenses, and Saru backs up, suddenly realizing that Lorca truly is breaking down. Lorca snarls, fingers squeezing the handle of the phaser like he needs something to keep him grounded:

 

“I can’t even be without a phaser anymore. I’m convinced those Klingon bastards will get me. I’m in the middle of the most powerful weapon in starfleet and I still  
think they’re going to be hiding under my fucking bed.”

 

Michael's hand is hovering over her communicator, ready to call for security, when Lorca suddenly collapses back into the chair. All of the dangerous energy leaves him, and he throws a arm over his face, trying to hide the tears gathering in his eyes. He almost sobs when he speaks again:

 

“I tried to kill Kat. I sent her to the meeting hoping it was a trap. I told you not to rescue her hoping they’d kill her and my secret would be safe.”

 

Saru stares at him, his mouth gaping open in horror.

 

“The admiral? You tried to...”

 

Lorca continues, reaching out to Saru as if he’s hoping for forgiveness from his first officer.

 

“I couldn’t let them take you from me too. Not another crew. I would do anything to protect the crew, Saru. Anything.”

 

Saru runs a hand over his face, shaking like a leaf, and doesn’t respond. Micheal, for the first time in her life, feels completely emotionless. All the fear, all the disappointment, all the disbelief has been drained out of her. All that’s left now is a terrible, aching realization. For the first time since she and Saru met him, Lorca is telling the truth. She breaks the silence, her voice ringing cold and clear like a death knell:

 

“Is that why you picked me? Because I’d sacrificed my morals to save my crew before? Because you thought I’d understand?” 

 

Lorca slumps further, but he seems relieved rather than further burdened. The look he gives her is almost joyful; he is impossibly glad for just that tiny bit of understanding from her. It hurts deep in her chest to see a that a man she had begun to admire is so deeply broken.

 

“Yes, yes. I picked you for that reason.”

 

Saru is drawing himself tall, his shaking lessening. He looks like he’s desperately trying to become the captain he needs to be. Michael gives him a supporting nod and, despite the urge to barrage Lorca with accusations and questions, waits for Saru to react. When he speaks, he sounds completely controlled. Lorca responds to the tone as if he’s being ordered---which now he is---and looks both hopeful and terrified.

 

“Gabriel Lorca, you are relieved of your command until your statements can be investigated and you are psychologically cleared. Report to sickbay, and you are not to leave there unless escorted by a guard.”

 

Lorca waits for Saru to finish before quietly but calmly uttering one last statement:

 

“Saru. One last lie. I’m the reason we’re here. I input the coordinates to the starbase slightly off. Not enough to cause the switch to a new universe, I don’t know why this happened, but still. I purposely sabotaged the jump and I am responsible for the damage that it’s caused.”

 

This new lie bows Saru’s shoulders a little more, but he remains standing proud.

 

“Very well. You may go.”

 

Lorca nods, and rises to leave. His head is bowed but his back is still straight; Micheal feels as if she is seeing the real Lorca for the first time. As he steps onto the bridge, Saru orders the guard to escort him to sickbay, but remains in the ready room. Once the door has shut and once again cocooned them is solitude, Michael steps towards Saru.

 

She carefully, gently, places her hand on his arm. She can feel him trembling, and he leans into the support. She whispers, her voice full of heartbreak that she can’t fully suppress:

 

“Saru, I’m so sorry.”

 

He laughs, a weak, sad noise, and slowly makes his way over to the chair that is now rightfully his. The tribble on the desk purrs a happy hum, out of place with the despair and pain hanging in the air. Saru’s legs give out as he reaches the desk and he falls into the chair. He takes a deep breath, gathering himself, and reaches out to pet the tribble. He speaks, voice choked:

 

“I never wanted to be a captain. I just wanted a captain to be loyal to. It seems I never will get my wish.”

 

Micheal wishes she could reach out to comfort him again, but there’s the barrier of the desk between them. Instead she just looks him in the eyes and speaks with as much truthfulness and confidence as she can:

 

“He’s not gone, Saru. We aren’t giving up on him yet.”

 

He closes his eyes, takes a couple more deep breaths, and when he opens them again he looks determined. 

 

“Of course. And thank you, Burnham. For being here. For helping.”

 

Slowly, he reaches his long arm over the desk to take her hand. She takes it, smiling a sad but fond smile at him. They brace each other, getting ready to face the suddenly captain-less crew and unknown universe together.

 

\------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some people might have read this as Michael/lorca but it's entirely platonic, so please don't expect that pairing to show up.


	3. new understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update, but I've completely removed myself from the discovery fandom and thus it's hard to find inspiration. I don't intend to stop writing this story, but updates will be slow.
> 
> tw for this chapter: mentions of self harm. Panic attacks and dissociation.

\-------

Lorca has never liked sickbay. There’s too much light, too many little indicators beeping. It makes him want to bury his nails deep in his own palm and pull until the restless energy in him is spent. But he doesn’t; he keeps his hands carefully flat against the bed. He doesn’t need Dr. Culber adding self harm to the already lengthy list of things wrong with him.

 

The doctor is looking at him through the halo of medical scans, the pink and blue light glinting in his worried eyes. He scribbles down a couple more notes before setting his padd down and bracing himself to speak. Lorca winces; he’s already asked a few questions, and every one Lorca answers wrong. He’s starting to feel like a little kid facing down a disappointed teacher with a failed test in their hand.

 

“When was the last time you slept, sir?”

 

“Two days ago.”

 

Culber gives him a look and Lorca can’t help but shrink a bit, anger simmering inside his head. He knows when he slept last, damn it!

 

“From the signs of sleep deprivation you’re displaying, it’s been more like four.” 

 

Lorca wants to snarl at that, but bites his tongue. Had it really been four days? He could have sworn it had been two. No, wait...maybe three?

 

He runs a hand over his face and sighs.

 

“Doctor, I swear I thought it was two. But...sometimes I lose track of time.” 

 

Culber shakes his head, his kind face filled with strain. The guilt rears its head again as Lorca throws a glance at Stamets, drugged on the bed across the room.

 

“Well, sir, the fact that you’ve lost your sense of time is a bad sign as well. But you realize that allowing yourself to become this sleep deprived could have endangered the entire ship? Your reaction times are slowed. Your mind is fogged, making it harder to make decisions. Any longer, and you might have even started hallucinating.”

 

Lorca doesn’t look him in the eyes.

 

“I know. But the ship needed me, and I wasn’t feeling any effects.”

 

Culber looks at him with the indignant rage of a professional who has just been told a load of bullshit about their field.

 

“You weren’t noticing the effects because you’ve gotten used to being sleep deprived. You’ve been doing this for months, captain!”

 

Lorca grits his teeth; it may not have been healthy, but it was necessary. He had work to do, more important work than taking care of himself. He almost voices that, but he knows Culber would tear that reasoning to shreds. The doctor is unforgiving in how much he cares. So Lorca stays quiet and simmers, trying to comprehend the swirling mix of emotions he’s feeling.

 

He feels ashamed, and he hates that feeling so much he wants to reach into his own chest and rip the shame out. People have tried to shame him for years and he’s fought hard to keep it from sinking into his skin. But this shame is growing from inside him and he doesn’t know how to fight it. 

 

He’s angry at it, of course. Anger is an easy weapon to draw and he uses it often, but he’s afraid it won’t work this time. He has a sinking feeling that the reason he feels ashamed is because he’s realizing that he is wrong.

 

He knows that he needs to protect his ship; he knows it so deeply that he will never forget it. And from that knowing had grown a dozens other knowings: that he could push Stamets and it would make him stronger, that making Ash an officer despite his trauma would be fine, that manipulating everyone around him was acceptable as long as it was for their own good.

 

Now, suddenly, he has to face the fact that what he thought he knew is wrong. Pushing Staments had ended up with him lying comatose in Sickbay, and all of Lorca’s manipulations had ended up bringing them here, into a dangerously unknown universe. What he had done to protect the ship had instead brought her into more danger. Now, the doctor is telling him even his grip on reality is slipping.

 

His mind howls denial, as determined and self assured as ever. He knows what he has to do and how to do it, how could he be wrong? How could he lose his grip on something so simple as the passage as time? He may be sick, but he can’t be that far gone.

 

Culber must have noticed the panic he hadn’t realized he was broadcasting. The doctor looks him in the eyes and speaks, his voice even and calming:

 

“Captain. I know this is frightening. But this is normal. You’ve been through terrible trauma. You should have been treated, and given time off duty, but during wartime even starfleet can make mistakes. But this breakdown is expected. If you accept help and work on healing, you will be more functional. But it’s going to be a long process, and you’re going to have to work with me.”

 

Lorca breathes in deep, trying to process.

 

Can he really be sick? Could he be as broken as Kat thought? 

 

Is there any other explanation for the way he’s been acting?

 

He had been better once; he had loved his crew as a captain should. He had lifted them up and helped them learn, rather than tearing them down and building their strength from pain. He had believed in starfleet; in nonviolence, in diplomacy, in discovery. He had thought there was mercy in healing and kindness, rather than in ending torture with death. He had believed they could be better.

 

Yes, he is sick. He needs help. He needs to work with Culber to find a way back from bitterness and pain and desperation.

 

Lorca closes his eyes, refills his lungs, and tries to think through the aching in his body and the confusion in his head. When he opens his eyes again, he looks Culber in the eyes and smiles.

 

“I’ll work with you, doctor. No more denial.”

 

Culber smiles, the bright expression shining through the exhaustion that clouds his face. Lorca feels a pang of regret, seeing how Culber is still extending his hand to help even when Lorca has asked so much of him. He truly is an amazing doctor and a vital part of the crew.

 

Lorca lets his eyes drift to the side, and Hugh follows his gaze to Stament’s limp form.

 

“And I’m sorry. For what I asked him to do. For what happened to him.”

 

Culber lets his eyes linger on his husband’s still face, the slits of glazed eyes showing through half closed lids. His eyes shine, wet with tears he won’t let himself shed.

 

“I can’t forgive you, sir, but I appreciate the apology.”

 

\----------

 

Michael strides through the halls with the specific urgency of being called to the bridge. Saru is still unsure in his new captaincy, and she knows he’ll look to her for support in whatever move he decides to make. He had needed time to think, so Michael had taken the opportunity to shower and change into a clean uniform. It helps her feel more collected; something she desperately needs after the shock of Lorca’s reveal.

 

She’s tugging on her collar to straighten it when the turbo lift doors open, revealing Ash leaning against the wall, clearly panicked. Michael rushes to his side, already familiar with the panic attacks that take his breath away and leave him shaking. She waves the doors shut, hiding them from other eyes, and leans next to him. She doesn’t reach out to touch; contact only makes it worse.

 

He groans, a low, pained noise that thrums in his chest. The wounded noise rattles around her head, worry and love merging and spilling over. He’s leaning his forehead against the metal of the wall, grinding it against the surface as he tries to ground himself. His wild eyes dart around the small room, slipping over Micheal like she’s not even there. His hands shake and claw at the metal, a futile attempt to fight off the demons in his mind.

 

Michael sighs and speaks in a comforting sing song:

 

“Ash.”

 

She chants it over again and over again until it’s no longer a name. She chants it until it’s as steady as her heartbeat, hoping it will calm Ash’s racing pulse. She has no weapons to use against his wounded mind; only her patience and her love. More and more, she is beginning to realize that those aren’t enough. But what else can she do?

 

Slowly, Ash’s ragged breathing quiets, and her voice is all she can hear. His rigid posture collapses and he slides down the wall, uniform snagging on the uneven metal. She catches him, cradling him to her chest and letting his head fall on her shoulder. He looks up at her with glazed eyes that still don’t quite see her, but they’re clearing slowly.

 

When he is aware again, he looks at her, and speaks with exhaustion clear in his voice:

 

“Michael.”

All the hurt and love mingling in his voice makes her burn with emotions she doesn’t want to have. It makes her strong: raging, protective like a war goddess that wants L’Rell’s blood on her hands. But it also makes her weak with a cloying, aching love. She loves this man, so much that she thinks it will burst from her chest and stain the walls with everything she feels for him. It takes her breath away, leaving her confused by herself.

 

He blinks, war torn and weary, as if he had fought a thousand Klingons rather than had a panic attack in an turbolift, and whispers:

 

“Thank you. For being here.”

 

She holds him tight to her chest, letting him regain his strength in the safety of her embrace. Her mind is running in hopeless circles, trying to find a way to help him. She’s at a loss; all her logic and her reasoning can’t help him. She loves him, she loves him more than she thought she could love anyone, but she doesn’t know how to save him from himself.

\--------


	4. breakdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for this chapter: dissociation/flashback, mild violence, mention of rape, mention of death

\-----------

 

Once Ash has recovered enough to appear somewhat normal, Michael orders the turbolift to continue on its original course. Ash still leans against her, using her for support as long as he can before they reach the bridge. She runs her fingers through his hair, trying to comfort both of them with the soft movement. It isn’t easy, watching him fall apart like this, over and over again.

 

The turbolift stops and they pull apart abruptly, gathering themselves before the doors open and reveal them to the rest of the crew. By the time they walk out onto the bridge, they are both composed. Ash strides across the bridge to take the security station and Michael heads over to the captain’s ready room, knocking to alert Saru she’s there.

 

The door slides open and Saru steps out, nodding at her. He’s doing surprisingly good job at keeping his emotions hidden as he walks over to the captain’s chair, but he hesitates before sitting down. Despite the chair now being rightfully his, he still looks uncomfortable with taking it. He taps the comm on the arm of the chair with a long finger and looks at her for support before speaking. She nods at him and stands up a little straighter, trying to will some of her steel into him.

 

He speaks into the shipwide comm:

 

“Attention, all crew members. Captain Lorca has been removed from duty, as he was declared mentally unfit. He has also admitting to engineering the issues with our most recent jump and as such, will not be allowed anywhere but med bay without a guard. As for this strange new universe we find ourselves, we are going to do our best to explore while remaining undiscovered. We will begin by searching this junkyard for any information we can find. Power from non-vital systems will be rerouted to sensors to boost their range. There is no apparent danger, but we must remain alert. Acting Captain Saru out.”

 

He cuts off the channel and drops his head, letting out the breath he was holding. He stays curled in on himself for a moment and Michael can feel the entire bridge looking at him. Ash keeps his face blank but there’s a growing fear in his eyes. Owosekun and Detmer reach for each other, unconsciously seeking support by linking hands. The air in the bridge seems to thrum with fear and uncertainty. 

 

Michael desperately wants to relieve the tension, but she knows she isn’t the one who can. Only Saru can comfort them; as captain, he now sets the tone for his bridge crew. They will be confident when he is confident and be afraid when he is afraid. He has to pull himself together or all of their performances will suffer. 

 

Michael, while better at hiding it, is as afraid as the rest of the bridge crew. She wants to look to Ash for comfort, but she knows that she is being watched as much as the captain is. To show her uncertainty would only make the fear simmering in the bridge worse. So she tries to force down the clawing panic growing in her chest.

 

Saru sighs deeply again and sits up straight. He looks at her and she does her best to look comforting. It must work---thank the stars for her Vulcan upbringing---because he begins to calm. He looks at the viewscreen, taking in the terrifyingly large expanse of unknown space and squares his shoulders.

 

“Lieutenant Tyler. Scan the surrounding area for any active ship’s systems. Divert any power to sensors that you need to from secondary systems.”

 

Michael wants to cheer, jump with joy. Saru had regained his strength, and the bridge crew is responding to his newfound confidence. Detmer and Owosekun break their hand hold and begin to check their boards, ready and eager to move the ship as soon as Saru orders it. Ash doesn’t seem to be recovering as quickly; when he mutters “yes, sir” his voice shakes.

 

The bridge is silent for a moment, echoing with the ringing noise of a scan in progress. It lets out three long tones upon completion and they wait expectantly for Tyler to relay the findings. It takes him a second too long and Micheal can hear him fumbling with his station. She throws a quick, concerned glance at him. He really shouldn’t be on the bridge so soon after a breakdown, but what choice do they have? He refuses to reveal how severe his mental issues have become, afraid of something that Michael hasn’t been able to decipher yet.

 

He clears his throat and speaks:

 

“Captain, there are three other ships in range of our sensor with power. Two are small, with so little power they can’t even have life support. However, the third one is massive. It’s running on less than half systems, but it’s using so much power it must be a very large ship.”

 

Saru nods.

 

“Owosekun, set course for that ship. Let’s see what we can learn from it.”

 

Ash chips in:

 

“If we’re lucky, it may even have a few computer banks left for us to browse.”

 

Michael takes advantage off the lull as Owosekun carefully navigates towards the wreck to take her new station as science officer. She pulls up the scans Ash had taken, trying to guess at what they will find. 

 

Detmer breaks the silence:

 

“We’re here, sir.”

 

They come around a floating mass of melted metal to see a behemoth floating dead in space, a few lights still glowing inside its tattered hull. Michael's heart stops when she sees it. Saru breaths out, shock obvious in his voice:

 

“The ship of the dead.”

 

Michael stares at it for another long moment, terror scrabbling at the back of her mind. She turns to Saru but freezes before she can speak to him.

 

Ash is gone.

 

She can see it in his eyes, in the way he’s clinging to his station for support. His entire body shakes as he stares at the Klingon ship. He’s no longer here on Discovery with her, he’s back on that ship with L’Rell. Back on the nightmarish version of it that lurks in his memory. He’s back in that slaughter room, back with the phaser in his hands, back facing down the woman who had raped and tortured him. He’s back with L’Rell, and she doesn’t know how to break him out of it this time.

 

Her mind is a storm of curses. If only they had know it was there, she could have gotten him away before he saw it. He’d already felt unsafe on Discovery, with L’Rell lurking in the brig, but at least he wasn’t staring into the face of his trauma. She can feel it in her bones; this breakdown isn't like any of the ones she’d helped him through before. What little ability she had to help him is gone.

 

Saru and the rest of the bridge crew are unaware of the drama playing out between them. Saru clicks curiously as he looks at the ship and nonchalantly orders Ash:

 

“Lieutenant Tyler, scan the ship for functioning computer system.”

 

Ash’s lack of response is about as loud as a red alert klaxon ringing through the bridge. Michael is halfway across the bridge when everyone turns to look at him. She unhooks her phaser from her belt with shaking hands; he usually reacts violently and she can’t afford to have him hurt anyone. She triple checks that it’s on stun as Saru confusedly repeats:

 

“Lieutenant Tyler?”

 

Ash is dead still, a prey animal couching underneath the swooping hawk’s talons. But she knows he can feel their eyes on him and that soon his freeze with turn to fight. She passes Saru’s chair and steps as close to Ash’s station as she can without drawing his attention. She raises the phaser, the glint of light off the weapon instantly drawing Saru’s attention. 

 

“Michael, what are you doing?!?”

 

She doesn’t look away from Ash; she doesn’t have time to be concerned with anyone else right now. Ash is shaking harder, a thin trail of red leaking from his mouth. He’s bitten something, hard enough to bleed. She hopes it’s not his tongue.

 

“Ash. If you can hear me, you need to stay calm.”

 

His shaking is worse now, and he jerks his head to the side as if he’s trying to avoid a phantom blow. He flinches bodily, as if he wants to collapse and curl in on himself, but his survival instincts are keeping him on his feet. He looks like he’s fighting a phantom L’Relll, trying to dodge the damage she’s already done to him. But he hasn’t lashed out yet, is that a good sign?

 

She steps a tiny bit closer and speaks again:

 

“Ash, you’re going to be okay.”

 

He’s still not moving, not acting aggressively. A seed of hope begins to grow in her mind. She steps forwards again, into where she knows he’ll notice her.

 

“Ash---”

 

She doesn’t get to finish before he throws a sloppy but heavy punch, trying to smash her skull in. Someone screams behind them and she can hear Saru calling for security. She dodges another punch, grits her teeth, and aims. 

 

The phaser bolt hits him squarely in the chest and he collapses like a doll with its strings cut. He hits the deck bodily and sprawls out limply, looking frighteningly close to dead. She tucks the phaser back into her belt, finger fumbling with fear, and crouches down next to him. She cradles him gently, his hair trailing across the deck as she supports his head. The bridge is deathly silent, shocked into stillness, but she takes a moment to look at him before she speaks to them. His face is clearing in unconsciousness, some of the tenison that never really leaves him when he’s awake lessened.

 

She looks up, Saru’s eyes drilling into her. He’s so new, so inexperienced as Captain, and yet he’s facing so much. She swallows, tight, around the lump in her throat. She will not let this break her. She will remain sturdy, be the rock of her crew, even if she’s aching inside. She is Vulcan.

 

“Sir. Lieutenant Tyler has been experiencing severe PTSD symptoms and panic attacks since he came on board. I had been assisting him in dealing with them, but there are some that are too severe for me to control. He often becomes violent, sir, and seeing the ship of the dead was too great a shock for him. I was afraid he would hurt someone.”

 

Saru huffs, clicking a high pitched, staccato beat of distress.

 

“Is everyone on this ship hiding intense trauma from me?”

 

One of the bridge crew barks out an uncomfortable laugh and Michael feels a smile tug at her lips.

 

“I think after this, we’ll have it covered, sir.”

 

Saru sighs and sits back down in the captain chair. He waves a hand, motioning the security guard towards them.

 

“Escort Lieutenant Tyler to sickbay. Have him treated for any effects of the phaser stun and then escort him immediately to the ship’s counselor. Once I have her recommendation, I will decide whether he can return to duty or not.” 

 

The security guard nods and steps forward to takie Ash from her arms. She hesitates a moment, the irrational part of her screaming not to let him go. But she releases him and stands up, brushing herself off before returning to her station. She makes the effort not to look at him as he’s carried into the turbolift.

 

Saru looks at her with wide eyes, as if trying to make sure she’s okay, before turning back to viewscreen.

 

“While this has been a disturbing turn of events, let us remain focused on the job at hand. Detmer, are our sensors reading anything that we could use?”

 

Detmer frowns down at her board, eyes scanning readouts. 

 

“Any weapons or defense systems on the ship have been absolutely demolished, sir. Nothing of use there, someone was very thorough. Fortunately, they seemed to ignore the ship’s systems that weren’t battle oriented. The ship’s main computer core is partially functional. If we can remove it, we may be able to link it into our ship’s computer and decode its library.”

 

Saru nods.

 

“Perfect. How can we remove it while doing the least damage to it’s contents?”

 

Owosekun pipes up:

 

“Sir, the systems are delicate because of the damage they’ve taken. Teleporting it could do more damage. I would suggest using a remote controlled probe.”

 

Saru nods and turns to Michael.

 

“In Lieutenant Tyler’s absence, would you pilot the probe please?”

 

Michael agrees, grateful for the distraction. As concerned as she is about being stuck in this strange universe, that worry pales in comparison to her concern for Ash. She understands that getting help will probably be better for him, but she also knows how afraid of treatment he is. He will probably see her revealing his struggling as a betrayal, even if it’s what he needs. She doesn’t regret it, but she isn’t looking forwards to facing his anger and hurt ethier. Fortunately, for now she has the perfect distraction. Piloting the probe is delicate work and it takes her attention away from her racing thoughts.

 

\---------

 

The small shuttle is elegantly designed; the Empress values aesthetics almost as much as she does firepower. It’s got an curving swoop of panels that flare out on either side, reminiscent of the old earth airplanes. The wings are thin, and even the heavy nacelles are more delicate than usual for starships. Despite the shuttle’s somewhat vulnerable appearance, it’s landing is deafening to hear and kicks up the moondust of the barren rock around the outpost.

 

The small building’s main door is open in what would be invitation if not for the charred and shattered metal around the doorway. There is no one waiting for the Empress when she arrives with her entourage and she smirks; being forced to enter an unfamiliar base inhabited by a someone who’d already killed many of her subjects would be intimidating for most. She doesn’t hesitate as she enters; Staments may have the advantage here, but she has no doubt she is still the most powerful player on the field. She had not risen to power by being easily frightened, or by underestimating her own strength.

 

They occasionally step over dead bodies or pools of slowly cooling molten metal where Stament’s energy had melted streaks of the floor. The dead scientists and security guards are still clutching phasers; they had attempted to put up a fight, though they had been thoroughly outclassed. The empress takes in the death of her subjects and the base turned battlefield with a greedy glee. Every body or scorch mark they pass is a homage to the power of the new weapon she is about to acquire.

 

Finally, they reach a room where there are lights on, flickering occasionally. It may have once been a lab, but now it’s become a junkyard. Everything’s been smashed and burned before being strewn across the room at random. But most telling of all, there are no bodies sprawled about in here; this is Stament’s lair. There’s a crackle as a streak of blue energy leaps across the back wall, causing her guards to jump and raise their weapons. She waves for them to calm; she sees him and knows he’s not a threat.

 

Staments is lying on top of the only complete furniture in the room; a gleaming lab table. Blue sparks and small flickers of his energy crackle around him almost constantly, and when he opens his eyes they glow the same blue-green in the dimness. They lock eyes and smile similarly predatory smiles at each other. He rises, a sinuous movement, and weaves a small storm of energy around his fingers as he waits for her to speak.

 

“Mr. Staments. I must admit your work is most impressive.”

 

He laughs and jumps off the table, moving to bow to her. Her guards only grow more tense; but she feels no apprehension. She can tell the type of man Staments is just by looking at him and knows, for all his intelligence and his newfound power, he will never be brave enough to challenge her. He is a man whose potential is stunted by his own desperation to survive, and such types are always the easiest to control. He speaks, voice as sing songy and grating as in person as it was in his earlier transmission:

 

“Thank you, my eternal empress. But I offer you a gift greater than the ability to slay troops.”

 

She can see in his glowing eyes that he has found something truly great, something with the power to tip the current balance of the universe. How fortunate for her that such a weapon was found by someone with too small a mind to think of bringing it to anyone but her. She steps forwards, ignoring the warnings of her guards, and takes his arm. She begins the walk back to her ship, bringing him along with her, and lets her voice turn falsely affectionate:

 

“Tell me then, of this weapon, and I will reward you greatly.”

 

He grins, his blue eyes filling with greed, and begins to speak:

 

“It’s a ship, a shining weapon ship from another universe. They’re frightened, hiding in a junkyard I’d be most happy to lead you to...”

 

\---------


	5. brig

\----------

Captain Tilly barely manages to stay in her chair as her ship rocks, taking heavy fire from the imperial ships she can see through the viewports. Her crew chatters and screams, yelling information across the bridge to each other. She grits her teeth as she watches her ship pour fire into their enemies, knowing that it isn’t enough. They are terribly outnumbered, five to one, and she just knows they won’t be able to win this battle.

She snarls out a question, not expecting an answer:

“How did they turn so many of our own against us?”

The ships surrounding them are obviously imperial in design but they call themselves the Federation, which is an unfamiliar title to her. Perhaps a new conglomeration of rebels rising up against the Empress?

Not that it matters right now; they’re fighting for their very survival. Detmer and Owosekun’s fingers fly across their stations, trying to keep the weapons firing and the shields up.

Tilly screams for the whole bridge crew to hear:

“I want options, now!”

Owosekun whips around, braids flying around her face, and yells back:

“Ma’am, I have an idea!”

There’s a large explosion that sends Tilly stumbling out of her chair and she catches herself on Owoskekun’s station. She hisses at her:

“Spit it out!”

“There’s a nebula in reach of sublight engines. It will confuse sensors and we may be able to lose them.”

Tilly nods, knowing this is a desperate choice to be making.

“Do it.”

Owosekun sends them leaping through space, the engines screaming, almost hitting one of the federation ships as they pass by. The rebels continue firing on them as they flee and the ship shutters, barely holding together. But there, slowly growing on the viewscreen, is their salvation. The nebula swirls blue and purple and they dive into its protective cloud. Owosekun sends them deeper and deeper until no space can be seen and then stops, letting them rest in the purple cloud.

They stop taking weapons fire, the ship falling silent except for the groaning of damaged bulkheads. Tilly grins, patting Owosekun on the back.

“Good job.”

\-------

There’s the chirping beep of an incoming comm call, making Culber twitch. Lorca watches as he keys the computer to take the call, Saru’s face flashing on the screen. He’s to far away to hear what’s said, but it’s something that makes Culber’s forehead wrinkle with distress. Then he ends the call and apporaches Lorca’s bed, smiling an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, sir. Have orders to move you to make room for an incoming patient.”

Lorca lets himself be gestured off the bed, standing and following Culber as he asks:

“Who’s incoming? Is everything alright?”

Culber smiles comfortingly at him as he walks him to the door.

“Ash Tyler. Something about past trauma and a breakdown on the bridge. Shouldn’t be anything we can’t handle. But we’ve been ordered to move you to the brig.”

Lorca laughs at that.

“The brig? Am I a criminal now?”

Culber shrugs, gesturing a security guard forwards to take him.

“Technically sir, yes. It shouldn’t be for long.”

Lorca sighs but follows the security guard out into the hallway sedately. He doesn’t complain or resist as they make their way down to the brig. He lets them walk him into the brig, despite the instinctive adrenaline rush the sight of the prison cell sends through him. He lets them bring the field up without complaint, despite flinching at the familiar noise.

L’Rell sneers at him, greatly entertained by the sight of the captain trapped in his own brig. He snarls at her, a wave of intense hatred surging through him at the sight of her smirking face.

She had hurt his security officer. She had tortured and used him for seven months and she had enjoyed it. 

Why had he even kept her alive? He should have killed as soon as she was captured, when he still had control of the ship and could get away with it.

His mind fills with images of her, blood streaming from her cut throat or disappearing in the flash of a phaser. He shakes his head as if that’ll get rid of the images buzzing around his head like flies.

It scares him, when he gets like this. When he sees how to kill people, whether friend or foe. But he doesn’t know how to stop; he’s certainly not conjuring up the bloody images on purpose.

Just another thing wrong with him. 

At least L’Rell would deserve the things he’s thinking of, and he lets that buoy him up. He leans against the cold wall of the cell and thinks of all the ways he could put an end to the woman who had dared to hurt his security officer. 

\----------

Ash wakes up in a flash, staring up at the bright lights of the medbay. Culber leans over him, taking his vitals. Ash does his best to smile at him and looks around the med bay, taking in the empty beds and the one Stamets occupies. Ash has never really had a conversation with lieutenant Stamets, except for a hurried exchange during the time loop fiasco. But Michael has good things to say about him, and Ash respects him.

Seeing him lying in a med bed, still enough to be dead and eyes blank white, is terrible.

Culber finishes up with Ash and goes to check on him.

Seeing him lunge up from the bed and send Culber flying across the room is even worse.

He leaps up from the bed Culber had him on a wrestles Stamets back down while Culber straps him down. Stamets shrieks and fights him, the animal fear in his face too familiar for comfort. Ash had seen it every day for seven months in his cellmate’s faces. It makes his skin crawl, being the captor, the torturer, even if it is for Stamets’ own good.

Finally Stamet is restrained and Ash steps away, returning to his bed. Culber follows him, looking shaken, but not seriously injured. Ash feels sorry for him, not knowing when or if his husband will get better.

\---------

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone is wondering why Captain Tilly doesn't notice the differences between starfleet ships and imperial ships in this first chapter: The empire values aggressiveness and bloodlust over any sort of thought, so I doubt Captain Tilly would be observant enough to notice this soon.


End file.
